Chapter 7

March 5, 2029

Refugee Camp 38, Korea

I saw him again the next afternoon.

It was on the quieter side of the camp, near the water tanks. He was helping a volunteer lift crates of bottled water off the back of a truck. I recognised his face right away—there was something about it that I hadn't been able to forget. He moved differently from the others. Like he was carrying something invisible and heavy. I didn't mean to stare, but he noticed. Our eyes met for a second, and in that second, something shifted. Not in some dramatic, fairy-tale way— but like the first breeze before a storm. Soft. Real. He gave a small nod. I returned it. After all, I started seeing him more often. We never really spoke, not at first. Just small glances when we passed each other, nods across the path. Eventually, those turned into shy waves, and then words, quiet, careful ones.

"I'm Xu Haoyan." He told me while waiting in line to get food. I told him mine and showed him my school tag that's still on my blazer. His eyes became lifeless for a second when I showed him my tag, but I didn't pay attention. From then on, we began to talk more. In little pockets of time, in places where no one looked too closely. The camp was slightly divided. In the northern Red End, the tents were weathered, packed closer together, and were a deep shade of ruby. It was mostly settled by Chinese refugees. The newer tents were white, set up in rows closer to the main gate, administration areas and markets. That's where families like mine were placed—Japanese, for the most part. I, a Japanese girl, could not go deep into the Red End, and neither could a Chinese girl go near the gates. It wasn't necessarily enforced to cross into spots that have red tents, but no one did. There was a grey area where people could cross and interact slightly with others, which is where Haoyan lived. He lived in a red tent tucked against a stack of unused supplies. He helped the volunteers often, carrying supplies, managing distribution, and sometimes translating. That permitted him to navigate freely. That's how we met. That's how we kept meeting. He said he was from mainland China, from somewhere near Nanjing, an area currently overrun by war. He never said more about it, and I didn't push. I knew what it meant and what it implied. I didn't need the details. We were both just trying to survive, and somehow our conversations made the camp feel less like a cage.

But the leaders of the camp noticed. Maybe they saw sitting too close one afternoon. Or maybe they simply recognised what was happening before we did. A woman from the refugee coordination team pulled me aside that evening. "It's for your safety," she said. Her voice was firm but not unkind. "You can't be close with him." She stated. I asked why. She hesitated for a second before answering. "You're Japanese and he's Chinese. Given the state of the world and what both of your countries have done to each other, relationships like that can be dangerous. If something happens... if there's a misunderstanding or a fight... it can become more than just personal. It can create tension in the camp. In a place like this, we can't afford that." She didn't mention the tents or the separation. She didn't have to. I nodded like I understood, but I didn't, not really. They said it was about safety. About keeping the peace. But all I heard was: You can't love him. Not because of who he is, but because of where he's from. That night, I lay on my bed and stared up at the fabric ceiling, wondering if Haoyan had been told the same thing, wondering if he was staring up at his own ceiling, thinking about me. Wondering if we'd still find a way.